Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Vending Machines
There's something about buying a soda or some partially hydrogenated snack food from the vending machines at work. Maybe it's an excuse to leave your office for two minutes; maybe it's the thrill of the gamble, knowing there's a possibility that the vending machine will suck your money from your hand but will give nothing in return. Nothing given for the change you scraped from the bottom of your purse, leaving small particles of who knows what stuck beneath your finger nails. No matter how many times you push the change return button (which, by the way, doesn't work if you insert a dollar bill - it's gone for sure) no clinking of coins is heard down in that small begrudging metal box that allows only two fingers inside to collect the difference. That bully of a vending machine leaves you hanging just like that bag of chips stuck, dangling from one of the revolving circular rings - that circular ring so powerful, shielding what's coveted and then dispersing... but, oh, so temperamental.
For me, it's just that I crave a Diet Dr. Pepper. It's a treat from the grueling work day; it's the break from the frustration caused by the crashing of my computer. I've thought of buying a 12 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, putting a few cans in the department's refridgerator, constantly revolving the warm to cold. It's just not the same for some reason. It's analagous to enjoying a sandwich made by someone else more than the one you made. I've been tracking my expenditures of late and have determined that in a month's time I spend between $26 to $39 on Diet Dr. Peppers from the beast upstairs. I have an addiction, and it's the vending machine...
VM Haiku... (bless you)
Oh, vending machine
From downstairs, I heed your call
"Diet Doc Pepper"
For me, it's just that I crave a Diet Dr. Pepper. It's a treat from the grueling work day; it's the break from the frustration caused by the crashing of my computer. I've thought of buying a 12 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, putting a few cans in the department's refridgerator, constantly revolving the warm to cold. It's just not the same for some reason. It's analagous to enjoying a sandwich made by someone else more than the one you made. I've been tracking my expenditures of late and have determined that in a month's time I spend between $26 to $39 on Diet Dr. Peppers from the beast upstairs. I have an addiction, and it's the vending machine...
VM Haiku... (bless you)
Oh, vending machine
From downstairs, I heed your call
"Diet Doc Pepper"
